


Build God, Then We'll Talk

by Katraa



Category: DRAMAtical Murder
Genre: Angst, Blood, Death, Drugs, M/M, Slayers, Tags to be added, Vampires, creative liberties with vampires, slayer!sly blue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 01:31:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1839445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katraa/pseuds/Katraa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The air is icy and the darkness is all around him.  He feels his ankles getting sucked into tiny pools of black, of doom and despair, and he wants to choke and gasp and run away while he still can.  His blood has run thin, run icy, and he can’t pry his eyes away from the unmoving body on the ground.   </p><p>(Slayer and Vampire AU MultiChap, with lots of shipping and drama)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Build God, Then We'll Talk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shinocchi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shinocchi/gifts).



> I can't control myself.  
> no sir I can not.  
> have some shameless vampire and slayer au fic.  
> you only think you know the story...

“This is god awful.”

He coughs, spewing phlegm and now dislodged dust all over. The opened trap door before him – some quirky little wooden door made a couple hundred years ago by old people looking to keep animals out of their well – beckons eagerly. There’s mold on the inside of the hinges and it makes a horrible squeak when he finds it necessary to send an irritated kick to it. It almost comes unhinged – he finds it rather fitting for the moment.

His hand is pressed hard against his mouth, fighting back another cough. He’s crouched down on his haunches because people back in the old days were short and hadn’t thought to build up their wells. Screw them, he thinks bitterly, knees and legs already getting sore from how long he’s been sitting like this. 

As he reaches forward to peer down the decrepit well, a skinny silver cross dances out from its hiding place beneath his dirt-smeared tank top. The cross dangles haphazardly, glittering in the waning moonlight, and it’s almost beautiful. All things considered.

“Aoba.”

The Coil on his wrist begins to vibrate. With a sigh, he answers, squinting at the artificial light that threatens to blind him. On the screen is a puffy dog, tongue out, panting. He left his AllMate back at his apartment, figuring it was easier to tramp through marshes without the dog at his heels. That also made sense at the time.

“What now?” he bemoans, trying this best not to cough up a lung. He hand absently reaches behind him to tug at the long blue ponytail trailing down his back – yup, the hairtie is still secure. Perfect.

“Koujaku has just informed me that the city is under siege.”

“Under siege?” Aoba repeats, blandly, brows furrowing as he regards the well with another morbid glare. “Explain.”

“It seems that the one you are tracking has managed to circle around and enter the city.”

“Shit.” Aoba bites down on lip, hard, drawing blood. It’s probably not wise, so he licks it up quickly and tosses the well another glance before returning his full attention to the Coil around his wrist. “How long?”

“It seems only a few minutes. Koujaku contacted me to see if you were safe.”

“If I was safe….” Aoba mutters, tone bitter. He shakes his head, just once, and stands up, dusting off his pants. “I don’t need that old man to worry about me. I can handle myself.”

“What shall I tell him?”

“Tell him this is my kill and to leave it alone. This isn’t some fight for some stupid Ribster.”

“Koujaku—”

Aoba tenses. It’s not like him to care about anyone, especially some old man that left him stranded on this island for years. He scowls, wanting to say something scathing but he falls short, he comes up empty. “Doesn’t know. I get it. He doesn’t know shit and it’s gonna stay that way. Just tell him that it’s some rogue Rhymer and that I have a personal grudge or some shit.”

“Understood.”

The Coil connect cuts and Aoba stares at the blackened screen. There’s a pit in his stomach and he swallows, trying to fill it with saliva and false bravado. It doesn’t work too well and he looks over his shoulder back out over the marshy outskirts of the city. He’s pretty close to the shore, he realizes, and it makes him feel even sicker. He really shouldn’t be dawdling at a time like this, dragging his heels in the dirt, but he’s hesitating.

This’ll be his third kill. It had all started a few months ago and it hadn’t stopped. It probably would have, maybe, if that _asshole_ hadn’t left him all alone, hadn’t abandoned him, hadn’t _died_ on him. He winces, the pain too real, too fresh, and he scoffs.

“This is a fucking waste of time,” he breathes out as he heads back towards the city, hood pulled over his head, eyes empty and barely able to reflect the beating moon above.

* * *

“He’s not dead.”

“He’s not breathing, of course he’s dead!”

“I told you, you moron. He’s _not dead_. Leave him to me.”

Aoba brushes past a dazed Koujaku and stops a few inches short of the body on the ground. There’s blood pooling around it and the smell of something faintly metal makes Aoba’s stomach churn. He resists the urge to wretch and instead digs his nails down hard into the soft flesh of his palm. He can do this. He can always do this.

“Aoba…”

“It’s _Sly_ ,” he growls as he crouches down next to the body. His bones creak and he wonders if he’s really getting that old. Nineteen wasn’t old, the last time he checked, but then again, he isn’t exactly the normal case.

Koujaku looks perturbed but doesn’t argue. Instead, the Ribster removes himself – just a few strides away – and pretends to occupy himself with phone calls to Beni Shigure. It’s fairly easy to see through the deceit. 

“Smells like puke,” Aoba mumbles as he starts fiddling with his Coil. He catalogues a few things, a few numbers and dates and times and then takes a picture, before he tosses a look back over his shoulder at Koujaku. He isn’t hovering, but he’s close enough to make Aoba bristle.

“I said leave,” Aoba says over his shoulder, eyes narrowed into golden slits. “Leave the clean up to me. Go take care of your pets.”

Aoba had always had an issue with Ribsters, especially ones that acted like _a family_. It was a stupid sport, and the idea that a bunch of guys sat around circle-jerking over beating other dudes up just rubbed Aoba the wrong way. He’d rather Rhyme, rather get lost in the rush of technology and the thrill. He’d rather throw himself at parties and drugs and forget, just for a second, that he’s wrapped all up in this mess – forget that he knows the name Toue better than most.

“I got it,” Koujaku says albeit hesitantly. There’s obvious turmoil in his gait but he leaves, still on the line, or at least pretending to be.

When he’s finally alone, Aoba sucks in a shaky breath.

He’s afraid. 

And he’s afraid to admit that.

The air is icy and the darkness is all around him. He feels his ankles getting sucked into tiny pools of black, of doom and despair, and he wants to choke and gasp and run away while he still can. His blood has run thin, run icy, and he can’t pry his eyes away from the unmoving body on the ground. 

“You can stop pretending,” Aoba says, lowly, and the earth shakes.

“It’s a shame,” the bloody stranger says, sitting up, holding his bludgeoned head as if it’s just a minor headache, “That he knew you. I would have loved to be the cause of his demise.”

Aoba snorts, but it’s humorless. “Most of those guys rub people the wrong way, yeah,” but it doesn’t really sound like he’s agreeing too much.

“And you’re his white knight?” the man chuckles, licking his split lip as he leans back on his palms, ass still planted firmly on the pavement. 

“Not really. I just like people staying the hell out of my territory,” Aoba says, voice almost as dark as the night around the strange duo. “And right now, you’re the number one violator of that. Tough luck.”

Without warning, there’s a crack. It almost sounds like the breaking of bones. Maybe it is, because of the bleeding body lurches forward at such an ungodly speed that the wrists that had been supporting it earlier must have snapped from the force. And still, without warning, there are hands shoving him down, down, and a snarling mouth near Aoba’s face. There’s an oddly saccharine scent about the mouth snapping near his nose, but he doesn’t dwell on it. He doesn’t dwell on the blood of others dripping on his face, marring his jaw and his cheeks. 

What he does is push forward with his knees, knocking the rabid body back down on the ground. What he does, with practiced excellence and agility, is shove forward and pin the twisting stranger down, and in one fluid motion, stabs him in the heart with a stake made of wood and silver – it’s an old classic.

“Fuck you,” Aoba says, emptily, as he watches the afterlife drain from the body below him.

No one crosses him without repercussion.

* * *

Aoba nurses his scratched cheek with a blend of alcohol and water. 

He stares into the mirror, near lifeless, when he gets back to his apartment. Ren sits at his heel, eagerly waiting for his next command, just like the tiny, stupid robot dog he is. Aoba hasn’t said much since he got back and he doesn’t plan to, either. Why bother with artificial intelligence? He isn’t that lonely. Not yet, anyway.

It’s been like this for months. When he’d least expect it, he’d get word from Ren – sometimes Trip and Virus, too – that there was a rogue lurking about. It didn’t take a genius to realize it was one of Toue’s little experiments, little solider men, sent out to scope the island for their doting master. And it didn’t take a genius to realize what they truly were and what truly went on in that stupid Tower. Aoba had heard rumors for years, but it wasn’t until months ago that he came face to face with the truth.

Around the same time he lost his parents and his brother.

Their deaths had brought Aoba a renewed sense of hate for the monopolist company that seemed to own everything on the island. It wasn’t until he had met Toue in person that he realized how deeply this all went. His dad’s silly training with weapons all made sense, but just a little too late.

The passing of Sei, his twin, had been the last straw. Drained of blood and left to die in Aoba’s skinny arms. Things like that change a person, usually for the worse.

And Aoba was no exception.

The more Aoba thought about it, in retrospect, the more he should have suspected that his father was part of the weird underground resistance that was trying to dethrone the power-hungry tyrant. And he should have known that his father wore silver all the time for a reason, and that when he disappeared at night, it wasn’t just for long walks to clear his mind.

After all, Aoba had found the stake and cross-necklace in Nain’s old wooden box under his and Haruka’s bed.

And it hurt that he kept it a secret for so long.

Maybe then he could have saved Sei, at _least Sei_.

So, Sly Blue was born, from a silly Rhymer tag. With that pseudo, Toue would never, ever see him coming. No, not ever.

Aoba’s fingers clutch at the base of the sink and he can’t help but throw up the contents of his stomach. It’s been a long week and he hasn’t been sleeping, been eating, and he almost wants to curl up and die. His only reprieve is Rhyme, and even that is losing its charm. Especially when it’s so deeply rooted with Toue. 

_Life sucks_.

* * *

Mizuki watches Sly with a sort of patience that usually is reserved for priests and teachers. And in a way, Mizuki is kind of both. He’s a teacher for his men and he’s a priest because he’s so godly and perfect and righteous. Aoba hates him, sometimes, for it, but he can’t seem to stay away. Mizuki is his only friend – especially on the bad days when he tries to forget about Koujaku and the pain he’s caused him.

Sometimes, Aoba wants to spring across the tiny-ass bar of the Black Needle and pin the pretty tear-dropped jerk against the wall and makeout. And sometimes he wants to be left alone. To be fair, Mizuki and Koujaku are among the top of his list for guys he’d trust, especially in _that_ context, but they’re also on the very short list of people he hasn’t fooled around with. He isn’t sure why the two lists don’t match up, but he thinks it’s some deep rooted fear. Just like everything else is.

“So,” Mizuki begins, cleaning a glass from the bar with a rag. “Koujaku said you took care of some thug last night?”

He sounds worried. Aoba could laugh. “Yeah. The prick was causing trouble so I caused trouble back. No big deal.”

“Are you safe?”

It’s a weird question and Aoba stops. He had been in the middle of spinning his foot around, counterclockwise at the base of the bar-stool, but the question is enough to freeze him to the core. He smacks his lips together.

“That’s a dumb question.”

“Did you…ah, dispose of him safely, I mean?” Mizuki rewords it, sensing the tension growing.

“Yeah Always do. Don’t worry,” Aoba mutters and he isn’t sure why he’s trying to reassure Mizuki. He shouldn’t have to do this. “Would have been easier if Koujaku didn’t stick his nose into things.”

“He’s just trying to help.”

“He doesn’t understand,” Aoba seethes, bristling like a dog, and he nearly foams, too. He settles down after a second, refusing to make eye-contact. He takes a sip of his gin and rubs his temples. “It’s my own business, ok? So just stay the hell out of it.”

“Aoba, we’re your friends…”

That’s true. They had been his friends before this mess with Sei and his parents started. They had been the only ones there for him. Unlike Tae, he hadn’t completely pushed them away. He just wished they didn’t try so hard.

“I don’t need help.” He needs gin.

“Okay.” Mizuki looks a bit sullen but he doesn’t prod. Instead, he changes subjects. “So, you still into Rhyme?”

“Tch… of course. Undefeated and staying that way,” Aoba prides, looking up, silently thanking his ‘friend’ that the subject has been derailed at last. He doesn’t want them to find out. Not ever.

“Heard there’s a new guy in town,” Mizuki chuckles and he tosses the alcohol bottles a wistful look. “Some foreign kid. He’s really good. I’ve seen him play.”

“Have you?” Aoba isn’t too interested – he hears these rumors a lot and the people are never half as good as strangers make them out to be. It sucks.

“Yeah. I think he wants to fight you. You’ve got quite the reputation.”

“Mm.” Aoba tips his head in acknowledgement and takes another sip. Mizuki went heavy on the gin, light on the tonic, and it’s good. The lime is a nice touch, too, and he wonders if he should have just ordered a gimlet, instead. It’s more up his alley tonight – sour and strong.

“Just be careful out there, ok?”

Mizuki has no idea how silly of a request that is. Especially for Sly Blue.

* * *

He tries to blend in with the crowd.

It’s another night, another Friday, and there’s some vicious party. There’s angel dust and there’s booze galore and he’s pretty sure he’s getting contact high. But that’s fine. It’s all fine because he can temporarily forget about the darkness of the night and the pressure on his shoulders. He can forget about dead parents and stupid best friends and the darkness that threatens to curl its tendrils around him and drag him _down_.

He can dance all he wants, drink all he wants, and no one will know. Ren’s back at his shitty apartment, Mizuki is at the Needle with Dry Juice, and Koujaku is probably doing some late night hair cuts. 

Everyone has a place, even him. Here, in this throng of strangers with flashing lights and no memories of the evening.

A hand touches his wrist and he looks, squinting his eyes to try and make out the shape in the flashing strobe lights. It’s like looking into a kaleidoscope and for him, he wonders if that’s new or not.

The stranger who’s touched him smiles – or is that a smirk it’s hard to tell – before he parts his lips. He looks like he’s whispering but Aoba can’t tell, can’t hear. He can’t see the color of his hair or the color of his eyes. All he can see is the strong jawbones and the way his eyes twinkle in the strobes.

He’s being led away, back down the hall and into a bedroom.

There’s a click and the door locks with effort.

The stranger, who smells like bad decisions and smoke, shoves him against the wall. He feels lips at his neck and he tries to relax into it. Being used, being worthless is easy. It’s easier than killing blood-sucking ghouls and it’s easier than being the little boy who lost his parents and twin brother. It’s so much easier.

“What’s your name?” the stranger asks, voice low and old and Aoba wants to get sick.

“It doesn’t matter.” Nothing does.

He feels a hand ghost over the stake in his pocket and he tenses. He doesn’t need that found, can’t _afford_ for that to be found. 

“Heh. Don’t worry, little blue. I won’t speak a word…”

There’s a chill running down his spine and his high is gone, the bastard. He recoils and tries to pull away but the man has him by the throat, strong hands, stronger fingers, and he’s seeing blips of white and black. He can hardly breathe and his feet kick uselessly. Is this what dying feels like?

“You fu—” he gasps out and he can make out fangs, and is this how it’s going to end? Being drained at a party he came to to _forget_ it all? How ironic, coincidental, he isn’t sure.

It’s around that time, as fate has it, that a dark shape in the corner moves. With unbelievable speed and he same dexterity likable to Aoba, the large predator is grabbed and thrown aside. The strong-jawed man falls to the ground, coughing, and it takes Aoba a minute to realize the guy has literally been stabbed in the back. He wonders if the metaphor works, too. Maybe.

“Moron,” the second stranger says, lifelessly. He walks over to the gasping guy and he stabs him again, this time in the chest. 

As Aoba squints, he realizes it’s… yeah. It’s a stake. This dude is wearing these chintzy leather gloves and is literally driving a stake into the blood-thirsty asshole.

It’s kind of cool.

When it’s all said and done, the blonde-haired hero of the night turns to Aoba. He has pretty eyes and an even prettier face, hair a soft dusty blonde and eyes a ghostly green. There’s blood on him from the squabble and his chest seems to be rising and falling rapidly. Aoba doesn’t have the heart to blame him.

“I didn’t need your help,” are the first words out of the cocky boy’s lips and Aoba feels like maybe he should have said thank you instead.

“Whatever,” the stranger mutters as he steps away and steps closer to the door. 

He reaches for the door.

Aoba stops him, though and he tries to meet the eyes of the fearless moron. “You’re?”

“I’m what?” the stranger deadpans and he tries to wrench his wrist free from Aoba’s death grip.

“You’re a Slayer. Seriously?” Aoba’s lips quirk up, and he’s almost hopeful, almost happy, because all this time he’s been alone, so alone, and finally someone, after months of going at this alone, is showing up. The rage dissipates for just a second.

“Yeah? So?” The stranger wiggles his wrist again. “Let go.”

“Nah,” Aoba drawls and he tightens his grip, smirking, haughtiness returning. “I’ve never met another.”

When he says another, the stranger seems to take pause. He looks up at him and there’s a flicker of _something_ in his eyes. Just what it is is hard to tell. Neither of them question it for now.

“You’re too scrawny to be one.”

“Wow,” Aoba drawls, feigning offense, as he cocks his head to the side. Just maybe, with this brat, he’ll stand a chance against Toue’s hoard. Just maybe. “Who are you? You new around here?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Yeah. It does. I’ve been waiting months to find someone else and—”

“Not interested. I work alone,” he says, and the first bit of his response is laced with some kind of accent Aoba can’t pinpoint. It’s kind of alluring, in that dangerously sinister way.

When Aoba regards him with a frown, he takes note of the stranger’s many piercings. They suit him, he thinks. Face full of metal for a slayer.

“Do you know anything about these people?” He probably shouldn’t call them people. They aren’t – not anymore.

“Not really.”

“Gimme your number and I’ll get you up to speed sometime. C’mon. You seriously can’t be thinking about going at these pricks alone.” This desperation isn’t like him and he hates it. He hasn’t been this frantic in awhile.

“Fine.”

There’s hope.

Dismal hope, but it’s there. He adds the other’s number and contact information quickly and he passes the blonde – Noiz apparently – a quick look again.

“All right, Slayer. Guess I’ll see you around. Lemme know if you hear of any dicks.”

Noiz wrinkles his nose, looking bored, but nods nonetheless. He doesn’t say goodbye and he brushes past Aoba with fleeting interest. Aoba watches him leave the bedroom with the same swiftness that he saved his ass with earlier.

It’s definitely to be envied.

Aoba toys with the stake in his pocket, mulling it all over. He probably should discard of this body, just to keep the public uninformed. Probably.

It’s going to be another long night, he laments, but the cold and suffocating air doesn’t feel as oppressive as it usually does.

Because, just maybe, he has some hope that he’ll be able to get his revenge.

All thanks to some foreign Slayer.


End file.
